Fata Morgana
by Trins xxx
Summary: "It's not the sun you wanted to stand in with Olivia. This sun burns with a ferocity, even as it slips away. This sun boils your blood and blisters your soul and smoulders your essence. It sets your world ablaze." AU Season 4. Jake-centric and Pro-Mellie.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer****: **I don't own Scandal.

**Author's Note****: **This story is purely from the point of view of Jake and will heavily feature Mellie. If you're not fans of either, this story is unlikely to appeal to you. Consider yourself warned. I foresee this story as having 14 chapters.

Reviews are welcome and valued, be they positive or negative.

_It's not the sun you wanted to stand in with Olivia. This sun burns with a ferocity. This sun boils your blood and blisters your soul and smoulders your essence. It sets your world ablaze._

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**Fata Morgana**

~ To industry, nothing is impossible ~

_Latin Proverb_

At the end of it all, it was an easy decision to make. It wasn't even your decision really. It was made for you the day you fell in love with Olivia Pope.

It's only once you're standing on the tarmac that you have time to think, to ponder and to _wallow_ in all that's happened. It hurt you in places you didn't know existed, didn't know you could feel, every time Olivia smiled at Fitz and chose him over you. It stung even more all of the times that she chose herself, chose to not make a decision and left you waiting and hoping and wishing that maybe, just maybe, she would choose you.

It was stupid of you, really. You know you love her the way she loves Fitz and maybe that's what destroyed you in the end. You wanted her to save you but her love has been a destructive force, atom by atom, cell by cell, until all that's left is a Jake you don't recognise and you don't want.

And that's why, when the First Lady announced on national television that she would travel to Sudan, following the latest ceasefire and with a famine in full swing, strings were pulled until you're charged with a mission, travelling at the First Lady's side.

You're pretty sure Olivia knows what you did – when she looked at you, her eyes staring and cutting through any and every defence you have, you were positive she knew exactly what you'd done and why you'd done it. You're equally certain that she doesn't care – not enough to stop you, not enough to choose you, not enough to love you, not enough to save you. You've never been enough for her and it hurts more than you can bear.

She's not here saying the final goodbye but then again, why should she be? Fitz is here instead and there's a large part of you that hates him. There's a larger part of you that hates you, yourself. He plays the loving husband, his wife plays the loving wife but it's only when she hugs her daughter that you think maybe there is a human being beneath the ice. It's a fleeting thought and you neither hold on to it, nor follow it when it drifts away, like so much sorrow on a summer breeze.

You think it's entirely fitting that the sun is hiding away behind clouds the day you forsake Olivia Pope.

Because this time, you're certain there's no coming back. This is the end of the road, Jake, you tell yourself. You wish you could convince yourself but there's always that traitorous part of you that clings to hope, even though you know full well that once the plane is in the air, it will be Fitz-and-Olivia, Olivia-and-Fitz, free to bask in the shadows of their shared love. And that love has no room for a Jake.

It's entirely with relief that you board the flight, as if this solidifies the decision you have already made.

The plane is small, crowded full of the entourage that follows the wife of a president everywhere, even to Sudan. It's still large enough for you to tuck yourself into an unobtrusive corner and think about life and Olivia and lost loves. You're still aware enough to feel every shudder of the metal body surrounding you, eyes constantly sweeping for any threats. Every time you catch sight of the First Lady, she's in deep discussion, usually to a blonde girl young enough to be her daughter. Probably discussing fashion, you think caustically and you wish to hell that you would prefer blondes to dark haired, dark skinned beauties with a ferocious moral compass. Regardless, there's enough of the original Jake left in you to take pride in a job well done, (and even though Olivia would always sway your decisions and take precedence over every other person, Olivia isn't here to sway the decisions already made).

There's beer on the flight, and hell if your lips don't quirk upwards just a fraction. The flight is chilled and the sun was playing hide-and-seek in Washington but everything feels hot and your throat feels parched. The first beer goes down like a blessing. It's water to a man lost in a desert, and when the hell did you get so poetic? You have a sinking feeling that it was when you met one Olivia Pope. The second beer goes down just as quickly but you take your time with the third. You have built up a nice tolerance that improved even more during your time with Olivia, but even you know it's a bad idea to drink (too much) on the job.

It feels like a blink and suddenly you're on another continent, in another world entirely, where bloodshed happened on a daily basis, where crimes against humanity was an ordinary occurrence, where the will to fight and survive and succeed has never been as prominent as it is here.

Deep, deep, _deep_ within you, there's a part of you that's not been destroyed by Olivia, and that part of you admires the people that have survived more than a decade of violence.

You walk out and the sun is dipping goodbye but it's not the sun you wanted to stand in with Olivia. This sun burns with a ferocity, even as it slips away. This sun boils your blood and blisters your soul and smoulders your essence. It sets your world ablaze. It's the only option you've been left with, and maybe you won't be able to live through it, but you gave your word and you will make sure the mission is completed; if the cost is your life, it's a small price to pay.

The heat makes everything shimmer but when you head into the cool buildings you'll be staying in, the air conditioning doing quick work to chill your skin. The political chit chat takes place as you eye everyone and everything, spotting each gun-wielder and calculating the best way to take them all out, if it comes to that, before everyone's walking again.

As it turns out, the First Lady is staying on the top floor, most of her attendants are staying on the floor below and you're with them. It doesn't bother you. Your mission is your only priority, not catering to her every whim, which is why you're more than a little annoyed when she summons you to her chambers. Even the Sultan in Aladdin had more decorum, you grouse, having just taken your shirt off. You were eyeing the shower but as an act of rebellion, paltry though it might be, you decide to visit her topless and smelling of sweat. Let her suffer if she's going to be demanding.

You don't notice the admiring glances from the women and occasional man. You don't notice the narrowed eyes that promise threats either. Even with the air conditioner, your body burns, burns, burns and maybe it's got nothing to do with the heat here. Maybe it's got everything to do with your broken heart and fractured soul and maybe it's all irreparable.

The First Lady's lackey, the pretty little blonde with the full, kissable lips that's sure to have men swooning (men that aren't you), knocks smartly twice on the door of presumably Fitz's wife, the one you never bothered to meet and the one he never bothered to introduce you to. It opens promptly and she stands there, Melody Grant, First Lady of the United States. Her eyes narrow at the sight of your chest but other than a tightening of her lips, her face is as devoid of emotions as ever.

'Thank you, Caitlyn,' she nods her dismissal to the blonde and there's just a hint of the southern drawl that's usually absent in her speech. You notice it and you wonder at its significance before deciding what significance could it really hold? The little girl loiters hesitantly and reluctant to leave and if she's thinking she's got a chance with you, she's got another thing coming. Eventually, the First Lady's entirely blank face and passive expectation works.

'I'll be here,' is all she says before leaving and it's full of nerves and meaning and you just don't give a damn about either. Instead, you focus on the opulent surroundings worthy of the priciest harem, you think caustically. The carpets are rich and soft, with matching luxurious cushions on lavish sofas and couches; the bedding drips with splendidly expensive silk with delicately ornate thread work, plush pillows creating a bed of precious sin as the citizens in the country die from dysentery and bloodshed based on decades of resentment and violence.

'How is that any different to our glorious nation?' The First Lady of said Glorious Nation says sardonically, with a snort, startling you. When did you start speaking your thoughts out loud? The extravagant chandelier in the centre of the room pierces the light into a thousand splinters of all the different colours and shades and this all feels like a light-headed acid drip, a monstrous fantasia that nothing but an ill, overwrought mind could have created. Its ornamental centrepiece is the showy woman that circles you like you're the prey, closing the door behind her, your route of escape, but the showpiece is breaking all the rules, southern drawl dripping with satire and scorn and snorts and your mind feels full of heated buzzing, the edges are fraying and blurring and everything feels too hot, too much or maybe too cold, too little, but mostly, it feels of No Olivia.

Seconds later, your fevered brain stutters to a stop as you comprehend the words the presidential decoration, the woman you've designated as vapid and shallow without ever knowing her, speaks with a level voice and an icy calm demeanour.

'Are you going to kill me?'


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer****: **I don't own Scandal. Some of the characters would actually act their age instead of representing particularly immature versions of Romeo and Juliet if I did.

**Author's Note****: **I have to say that I was completely astonished by the positive support this story has received. There is such a prevalence of Ollitz on the site that I was hopeful but not confident that Mellie's character wouldn't be hated on principle alone. So it was incredible to find people actually interested and supported!

In terms of the story itself, I know exactly how it ends and how many chapters there will be in this story (14, if people were wondering). So I hope those who enjoyed its start will continue to enjoy it but if there is something you think could be improved, please do let me know. This style and the entire format is quite experimental for me and it would be a pleasure from all of you what works and what doesn't for you!

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**Fata Morgana**

'_Be not afraid of growing slowly, be afraid only of standing still_.'

Chinese Proverb

The cold breeze drifts through your window, carrying with it grating bits of sand; real or phantom, it still irritates your skin, grazing it like an itch you just can't scratch. It's cold here; what everyone always seems to forget is that deserts hold the heat during the day but let it drift away during the night. It's cold enough that you're wearing a T-Shirt to bed. You could do with donning a sweatshirt or something but you're quite content to lie in your bed, stare at the ceiling and then the wall in turn.

You haven't managed to catch any sleep tonight, you're pretty sure you won't be catching any before dawn makes its appearance and still, your entire person is fixated on one face at one very precise point of time. It's shifted pieces in your mind, pieces you hadn't realised existed, but then, you'd never given the First Lady anything more than a passing thought before tonight.

Your lips are cracked dry when your tongue brushes past it; everything here feels dry, from the air to its people. It feels like this entire place is chafing against you, destroying you one layer at a time and in your more masochistic moments, you wonder what it'll show. Are you rotten to your core or is there something more in you? You'd really rather not know, you'd decided early on in the night, but your mind hadn't taken long to flit away anyway, back to the moment that's taken hold of your mind.

There isn't much left in the world that surprises you; there's even less in the world that leaves you speechless but the First Lady had done both. You'd stared at her, straight into her cold, guarded eyes with the heavy lids and she had been serious. And as per her personality, she hadn't really been _asking_, she had been demanding. Perhaps what had thrown you off is that she wasn't demanding an _answer_ but a _confirmation_. Her eyes had fixated on yours – fearlessly? Maybe arrogantly? Maybe she had just been searching for a truth but it was obvious, blatantly so, that she _knew_ you were there to kill her. Whatever she saw had just seemed to confirm it.

It hadn't occurred to you then, it doesn't occur to you now to be affronted by what she thinks of you. You know you would kill her without a second thought before doing so, but you also know that you would think about it afterwards, a constant ghost that you could never rid, would never _want_ to be rid of. What does, surprisingly, affront you is that she thinks so little of her husband.

He is a bastard, and you have no qualms admitting to a personal bias there, but he loves. He loves his children – you saw how his son's death broke him. He loves Olivia – the thought curdles your blood like milk left in the desert heat. He tortured you and took a personal, biased, _perverted _pleasure in it, but he has a streak of justice in him, a morality that leads astray as often as it leads him on the right path. Morality has no place in politics and it's a hard truth that sometimes the best politicians are the worst of humanity. What he isn't is a cold-hearted killer. He does _not_ hire people to kill his wife.

Does he?

The thought troubles you and what troubles you more is that it troubles you. Once upon a time, you would have said that Fitz was a man of honour, no questions asked. Several years after that, you would've said that ends justified the means – what is one life in the face of millions? The death of the First Lady could be justifiable in the current climate but what bothers you is that it would be for personal reasons, not political. It's inconsistent with Fitz the Man of Honour and equally inconsistent with Fitz the Politician. In fact, it's become increasingly clear that Fitz is hopeless at politics without a guiding hand.

Is the world a better place without the First Lady in it?

It's something to consider, mainly because you had never before given it a thought. She had asked you (demanded, really) to not kill her until the end of her trip. You already know that you won't kill her at all. It's helped by the fact that Fitz hasn't asked you to, but there is that niggling worry that maybe he asked someone else. It seems unfathomable with his character but then you never expected him to torture you either, did you? Love and loss destroys people as much as builds them up and you wonder whether it'll make or break Olivia; Fitz, you suspect, is already broken, a little puppet moved by hands that pull his strings, be it his headstrong wife, his compassionate lover or his politically astute (former) Chief of Staff.

_Why is she so convinced that you will kill her_?

The question goes round and round, up and down, a veritable sandstorm in your mind and you are still no closer to an answer than when you had first been gripped by it when dawn deigns to make an appearance. You're up and ready before most of the presidential entourage. It's as busy a day as the President's wife is likely to have, a brief breakfast with the country's current leaders, before several sessions with the media at infamous sites in the city. All political, all relatively humdrum, but the First Lady seems to thrive on it and that gives her minions their energy too.

They were little bees – little bees focused on what to wear and how to do the hair and _'that shade of lipstick is a little too dark_'. You'll admit to having your interest vaguely piqued when The First Lady retorted with 'it's dark enough to make a point to those chauvinistic bastards'. You've always known that she was demanding, you never knew that she had that fight in her, the one that called shit like it was and gave it her own version of the middle finger.

The breakfast was the dull affair you knew it would be. Politics were discussed but not the kind that included threats or plans or…really anything to the point. The food tasted good for the first time in months. You wonder what it says about you that food hadn't tasted of anything since you'd returned to Washington from nowhere with Olivia. You wonder if it says anything at all. You keep one eye on the First Lady, and the other eye on any potential threats. The only thing of the slightest interest is including her own guards as potential threats. You are as disappointed as you are proud that you do it with such an ease that it surprises even you. You leave the existential questions to ponder over for the night – this was work and work comes easy to you, almost as easy as falling for Olivia.

After that, it's a change of costumes for the stars of the farce and they're out in the burning sun. You can feel your skin going from pale to pink. You're hoping it won't end up red and blistered. The air has a particular smell, a tang that screams of copper, of blood. There's something not quite PTSD, not quite memories or experiences, not quite as disturbing as nostalgia that comes with it.

You're eyebrow – singular, the left one – goes up when you hear the First Lady mutter that it smells like blood. The little blonde girl, the one young enough to be her daughter (old enough to have more than a few lecherous eyes following her figure) stiffens next to her. You can practically feel the panic uncoiling within her. It's the First Lady that grabs your attention anyway, because you have zero idea what she was feeling when she said that so factually.

You need a cigarette. The thought pops out of nowhere and you don't know which dark and dusty corner of your mind it comes from but once it's there, it petulantly refuses to leave. Never mind that you've never smoked – fitness is important to assassins and the real leaders of the world. Once the thought is there, you know you don't just want one, you need it. There's always been an obsessive quality to you – it's what makes you an excellent assassin slash spy slash secret world leader. It's compulsion that makes you so immaculate with your work. Now you wonder if there's an addictive aspect, one that craves beer and tobacco and Olivia and apparently the smell of blood.

Shit, maybe you can see why the First Lady thinks you'll kill her.

It's a late lunch that they settle to – political, dull, _pointless_, with all of the guards on high alert. You find yourself staring at her lips – some sort of dark pink colour with a hint of red. The shades of lipsticks have never been your strong suit, although once, you did identify a fellow spy from the shade she had worn. Interesting case, a lifetime ago – before Olivia had ever come into your orbit. Or did you enter hers? You keep an eye on everyone with the peripheries of your eyes but the centre of them, the focus is her lips. Nothing lecherous or romantic, though they are beautiful and well-shaped and you're sure several men have stared at them with desire. It's purely because she's eating the food – the traditional stuff they have laid out, with subtle herbs and spices not often used in the US, and there're crumbs falling on her plate but there's none on her lips. For the merest of seconds, your eyes shift to the little blonde girl and there's a tiny crumb on the left side of her heart-shaped lips, a bigger one right of centre of her bottom lip. And you're back to staring at the darkly painted plump lips of the First Lady, without a single crumb on them.

They visit two more sites before they head back to the palatial suites they are staying in. It's late but the sun is still skimming the horizon, splashing the sky with oranges and pinks and reds that shimmer light sunlight on blood. The First Lady's skin is pale enough to absorb the colours, like red wine on a white shirt or a face slashed open. It's like modern art mingled with Picasso – twisted but beautiful but also fucked up beyond repair. Olivia's skin had been darker, too dark to absorb it. The sunsets had looked like light through stained glass on her – something celestial, ephemeral, delicately beautiful... The First Lady's face screams of violence and vengeance, of the delicacy cast iron yields...

'Was there a particular reason you were staring at my lips?' Her voice holds its usual southern drawl, spoken like a kiss softly blown across your neck. She could have been talking about her shoes, for all the inflection her voice holds and you're almost surprised enough to raise an eyebrow. Her eyes haven't shifted from the bleeding sky torn asunder by violent shades. All her minions look at her and each other in confusion, puzzlement, unable to work out who she's talking to. You wonder if the little blonde girl thinks the First Lady's gone mad, eyes wide and not so subtlety leaning away.

And in the reflection on the window, you see the barest hint of the First Lady's perfectly coloured, crumbless lips quirking upwards and you decide to let them wonder. Your eyes fix outside the window and the reflection in it, absorbing the shades of fire and blood.

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**Thank You**

To **BreathtakinglyMundane**, **tj87**, **SecretLoveCara**, **Henri Je T'aime**, **Clio1792**, **KnightleyDreamer**, **Ms.E1928** and guest for their reviews. Also, in response to those who like or dislike this ship, I make it a policy to make no promises. Ship them or not, you'll have to read the story to find the eventual outcome. (After all, surely that's part of the charm of reading a new story?)

To **KnightlyDreamer** for favouriting this story. (Incidentally, pseudonym anything to do with Emma?)

To **Henri Je T'aime**, **KnightlyDreamer**, **SecretLoveCara**, **chhavi** and **mellitzlover **for following the story.

I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint you all but it will be a bit of a slow burner and I have a feeling that not everyone will like the end of the story. I'm sincerely hoping it's better to write a story that gives people something to talk about than something they might briefly love but swiftly forget! Thank you all for the support – it's made for an incredible introduction to the fandom!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer****: **I don't own Scandal.

**Author's Note****: **Better late than never. For those still interested in reading this, it's definitely in progress with 14 chapters altogether. So we're slowly getting there.

Reviews are wonderful feedback as always, positive or negative. I hope you guys continue to enjoy reading this.

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**Fata Morgana**

'_Toleration is the greatest gift of the mind.'_

Helen Keller

The sunshine blinds your eyes as you exit the car, and when your eyes finally, _painfully_ adjust to it, you see an angel with a burning halo staring directly at you. You can't see the expression on her face – with the sun behind her, she's nothing more than a halo of a holy, pure yellow fire surrounding her the top of her silhouette, but she's staring at you and you don't know why. Your initial assumption (presumption) that the little girl sidekick to Mellie Grant had the hots for you was palpably untrue. You know that now. You'd have known that the first time you'd met her if you'd actually paid attention to her. It means that now, you have no idea why she's staring at you.

You hear clicks behind you – the roads are full of hot, dead dust, there's a desert full of sand around here and Mellie Grant still chooses to wear her ridiculous heels. You feel her presence behind you and then Mellie Grant, wearing said heels, walks around you towards the girl with the burning yellow hair.

She's been ignoring you since yesterday, since the car journey and the question and the half smile (more of an eighth at best, really). But she turns around and stares at you and it takes a second (a second too long) for you to realise that she's waiting for you to move.

Her hair is too dark to look like a halo of any sort, she has far too much weight to look gamine and her figure's too curvaceous to look angelic. Her silhouette is a womanly one and it's far more appealing than the silhouette of a gamine angel with a golden halo. Far too childlike and reminds you horribly, horribly of your father (and sister) but the thoughts are pushed away, like always.

She's in a bad mood today. Not that her mood is ever sunny, but there's been not the teeny tiniest hint of a real smile today, not an eighth, not even a sixteenth. You understand, though. In some distant, dusty part of your heart, you think you may even sympathise. Empathy is beyond your scope, sympathy is just within it.

It's been just the one meeting today, with the not-quite-head of security here (a known mass murderer) and the not-quite-head of country here (acknowledged in political circles as the puppeteer to the puppet that officially runs this country, or destroys it, according to Mellie Grant's harsh whispers to her most trusted (and blondest) side kick).

It wasn't pleasant.

They didn't blink an eye when the numbers of deaths and murders were recounted. Nor when the number of rapes and orphans, of child soldiers and breaches of human rights were listed. The blinks came when the little child-like blonde side-kick shifted, and the blinks were directed to her legs, her breasts, lips were licked too. The only other blinks came when Mellie Grant herself shifted, squeezing her legs shut tightly because she refused to give these perverted bastards anything extra to masturbate over. But they had nevertheless eyed her up and down, openly licked their lips, rubbed their hands over their thighs (but not quite their penises). She's understandably livid by the end of it.

'When is my husband coming, indeed,' she snarls under her breath so that only the little blonde girl can hear. You just read her lips. She's livid over her lack of power, which you understand. She seems completely unfussed by the creeps that have undressed her and will no doubt masturbate thinking about her (or maybe fuck one of their mistresses or whores or wives, imagining her body and her screams). She hasn't mentioned that at all, not acknowledged it. It's not PTSD – you've seen enough poor sods with that to know that this isn't it. But why, then, is she ignoring her own sexual objectification?

It doesn't matter. Her bad mood has destroyed the mood of all those around her, except yourself. You don't have a mood that could worsen, not since you've left Washington (and Olivia) behind. Everyone's acting stifled, stiff and unnatural, in the simmering sun. Everyone's subdued as they making their ways back to their rooms. And Mellie Grant isn't even bothering with a fake smile.

The uncomfortable thought crosses your mind. Are there cameras in Mellie Grant's chambers here? Cameras that watch her dress and undress for less than professional reasons? Should you have a look around there, ensure there's nothing? When will you get the chance to do this when you're equally busy making sure Fitz hasn't hired someone to kill his wife?

You follow the President's wife as quietly as the rest of her entourage do, the blonde little girl's gaze very skittish. You keep looking at her directly, even as you use your peripheral vision to ensure Mellie Grant isn't dying today. You do wonder if this is getting on her nerves. She's been so very careful to not look at you unless demanding something, like your movement. Careful to maybe look at your face but never into your eyes that maybe staring at her is bugging her. You hope it is. Assassins turned bodyguards can get bored on the job. Rather easily, actually, and nothing wrong with annoying the object of your protection, is there?

That's how you find yourself, just shy of midnight, when all of the little President's wife's minions are in bed and fast asleep, knocking on her door. Repeatedly, because the first set didn't seem to have any effect. So you knock a second time, a second set. You shift ever so slightly, getting restive and the skinniest tendrils of anxiety making an appearance. You're on to your fourth set of increasingly loud knocks when the door is yanked open and you see the sleep deprived, tousled, make-up free, angry face of Mellie Grant.

You have to choke back laughter. Her hair is HUGE – the sixties would have been proud. Her skin looks pale, the shadows under her eyes appear dark and her lips look dried and chapped.

You don't laugh, though, because she looks ready to punch you. Olivia was gifted at using words as her weapons, and Mellie Grant doesn't come close to that but she is still fairly articulate, but she is also far more physical. Her fists are at her side, ready to be utilised and you don't think she'll hesitate if you dare to laugh.

It's common sense, to speed up the entire plan for the night, you tell yourself. You secretly wonder if it was self preservation at work instead.

'I _told_ you, not until the end of this trip,' she snarls.

'That's not why I'm here.' _Shit_. You hadn't thought of that interpretation of your actions, and _double shit_, you've never actually denied her stupid allegations, have you? Pretty bad time to realise this. You're starting to think that your current sleep deprivation might be impacting you. Or more likely your mood – you've definitely gone longer without sleep with no impact on your abilities.

'What is _this_?' Mellie _demands_ rather than asks, as always. 'What are you doing here?'

"I wanted to check your room for cameras.'

She literally stares at you open-mouthed. You've heard of the phrase but you'd genuinely never seen it before now.

'No,' she says at all.

'No?' You ask, incredulity marring the word.

'No. No, you cannot come into my chambers, in the middle of the god-damned night, to look for bloody cameras. So, _no_.'

She really has an eye for dramatics, you muse as you watch her wildly moving arms. She's lethal and she's lethal unintentionally. Those arms could seriously knock out the eyes of some poor unsuspecting bastard.

You sigh, audibly and deeply and full of rich, creamy frustration. 'Look, I don't know what you think you know or what you think your rights are, but there could be a camera in there, one that watches you dress and undress and it's not going to be professional people looking at those videos.'

'You honestly think I haven't already had someone look through that room before sleeping in it?'

When she says it like _that_, with the southern drawl so accentuated, she does make it sound really stupid. 'You mean by one of those guys, who follow you around because you're the President's wife, not because they give a shit about you?' _Shit_, you really need to get some sleep. You hurry on with your words, speaking louder because louder means more convincing, more conviction. Right? 'One of the guys on your _husband's_ payroll? One of the guys that is literally your husband's guys, not your own?'

She stares at you. In silence. In an unnerving, increasingly awkward silence. And then her answer is a single syllable word. 'Yup.' And she crosses her arms for added cinematic effect.

What the fuck is wrong with this woman? You yourself love Olivia, so you've definitely understood why Fitz would fall in love with her. Now you're starting to get how easily he could fall out of love with Mellie Grant.

'You realise there might be some perverted guy out there, watching you dress and undress, probably almost certainly touching himself watch you dress and undress?'

'You mean the guys that already mentally undressed me and _wanked_ over me? Yup.'

Now you stare at her. At least she's not utterly and beyond stupidly oblivious but that indifference has to be a façade. No decent, self-respecting woman would be that uncaring about being objectified!

'And you're okay with it?'

'Why shouldn't I be?' She retorts, eyes narrowed and her voice so full of derision and fuck this, fuck her, you've had it with her attitude.

'Because no decent, self-respecting woman would be this uncaring about being objectified.' Your voice is just as derisive.

Her mouth is hanging open again and the part of you that's feeling guilty is far outweighed by the part of you that's relieved she's finally shut up. Until she starts speaking again, her pitch higher and far more painful than before.

'Decent, self-respecting woman? You mean like _Olivia_?' The syllables roll off her tongue like the taste of rotten eggs or spoilt milk.

'I never said Olivia,' you counter, not quite lying. You'd been thinking about her but had never verbally made that comparison.

'You think her tight-fitting fashionable clothes doesn't help a little with her success? You think her nice, big well-rounded breasts and tight ass don't get her something a little extra, even unconsciously given? You think my husband's _handsome_ face and charming smile didn't help more than his mediocre IQ and absence of political savvy? You think your _height_ doesn't help? You know the god damned statistics. You know appearances help. You know good looks help. You_ know_ people are that disgustingly shallow and that the world is that disgustingly unjust. I don't support it occurred to you that whether they see me undress or not, they'll do it mentally and masturbate anyway. And if they do see me naked, so fucking what? Is that going to physically hurt me? Emotionally? Make me worth _less _than I am right now? What's the actual consequence if they are watching me?' Her breathing is laboured, she's all but panting from self-righteous wrath and fuming fury.

'So am I an _indecent_ woman with no self-respect or am I just honest about what the world is like and what those stupid twisted perverts will be doing and thinking regardless?' There a second of complete silence that suffocates you. It's then punctuated by the slam of her doors in your face. And for the second time this week, Mellie Grant leaves you stunned into silence.


End file.
